Old Wounds
by licoricewolf
Summary: Rewrite of an old fic called "Leave A Scar". TW: brief mentions of self-harm. AU Becky Albright/Jonathan Crane.


They sit facing each other on his bed, struggling to see through the hazy air of dusk. The apartment was above the level of streetlights and they felt that turning a light on would be cheating somehow. They had begun during daylight, but now the sun was already touching the horizon, and they were no closer to their original goal.

It wasn't supposed to take so long. It never took this long in movies. But then, in the movies, it was done by actors, and the actors had had lots of practice.

It had started out so harmless— it had started out as teasing. And then somehow it wasn't teasing anymore. It hadn't stopped because it hurt. But it was very close to hurting.

Blue eyes stare into hazel, but not for long. Neither or them is too sure about making eye contact anymore. They're leaning into each other, though, so there's _something_.

"I'm not doing it," Becky says. She's always so stubborn. It's infuriating.

"Then I'm not doing it either," Jonathan snaps. She makes him childish. This is also infuriating.

"Well, I'm not doing it until you do it, do I guess we're at an impasse." She purses her lips. This whole thing was his idea in the first place, after all.

"I can do it for you, if you want," he says flatly, lifting his hands threateningly. She jerks away with a sharp intake of breath. Jonathan silently thanks whatever it is that blesses him with her lack of a blade so that he may keep all his fingers.

"_No_."

Her curtness is a catalyst; it brings them to the point of no return. Either she will or she won't. But she wants him to, so he isn't surprised in the least when she does.

She turns away from him deliberately as she starts to unbutton her pants. She's not doing this for _him_, she's doing this because _she_ gets something out of it. Her hair rustles as her shirt gets pulled over it, and he's reminded of leaves in autumn. Tiny, fragile things, gorgeous in their lack of life. The irony is not lost on him.

As soon as she's undressed, she shrinks in on herself. Her arms fold over her chest and she pulls her legs up in front of her like a shield. It only takes him a little effort to pry them away. She had agreed to this— with certain conditions. She was nervous (and so was he, but he would never admit it) but she was still willing. She never would have agreed to this if she wasn't. She certainly never would have _lied_ to him about it.

That was the tragedy of their relationship: she could never bring herself to lie to him because the truth would hurt him so much more.

He, hunched, still has to look down at her. She's skinny— skinnier than health issues would explain— and though she's never said why, it is abundantly clear to him in the scars on her thighs. The blue polka-dot pattern of her bra contrasts sharply with her freckled skin; her pink underwear does not.

He leans closer and she holds her breath uncomfortably as he examines her skin, finding all the minute details and imperfections. His eyes meet hers again and she clenches her jaw. But she knows what he wants, and she knows she won't get what she wants unless he gets what he wants first. So the mattress squeaks meekly as she shifts to show him her back.

He'd assumed there must have been some kind of bone issue that caused her to walk with a cane, but he had never expected something that would leave this much evidence. The scar runs the length of her back, beginning between her shoulder blades and disappearing beneath the top of her underwear. Compared to the freckles clustered on her skin, it seems unnaturally straight, a foreign imposition on the hollows of her ribs.

He can't help but touch it.

She arches her back and makes a noise that might have been the beginnings of a swearword. Every muscle is stiff and tense— he can feel it, but he can see it, too. She feels so _violated_ to have anyone's hands tracing over such a glaring sign of her frailty; the fact that it's _him_ of all people makes her simultaneously comforted and disgusted. The conflict is written across her back for him to see. He loves it. He thinks about giving the same attention to the scars on her thighs, but even he thinks that would be too cruel. At least, until the next time this happened.

"Alright, now you," she says tersely, interrupting his train of thought. She shifts back to face him and he has to make conscious effort to keep his face from falling. He had been having so much fun…

… And then her words hit him. They had a deal, yes— but people went back on deals all the time. It wasn't anything formal. It had been made in half-jibes and insults, that didn't count as a formal agreement, he didn't have to honor it.

"No," he says stiffly.

"You want me to do it for you?" she threatens, grabbing the front of his shirt. He realizes that the thrill in his stomach is from fear and that if he doesn't do this now there are so many things she could do to hurt him and not one of them involved her lifting a finger.

He glares at her, though he's beginning to suspect that the fury radiating in his icy eyes is no longer sufficient to motivate her. He does it quickly, nearly hitting her in the face as he pulls off his shirt, the buckle on his belt making a harsh _CLANK_ against the floor as he throws his pants down. He curls in against himself, hoping against hope that it's dark enough now that she can't make out his bare skin.

"Don't laugh," he manages at length. It sounds tiny and scared, like a bird that can't fly.

She does not laugh.

For a moment, she does absolutely nothing. She had not expected so _many_.

She was used to the little faded scars on his arms, the tiny nicks that were a road-map detailing how one becomes a serial murderer; but the other ones—she's never seen him shirtless before, so she's never seen the worst of it. The scars from the birds lace all the way up his arms and onto his shoulders and upper back, a few of them appearing on his ribs. There are several crooked gashes on his stomach and sides, as well as what appears to be massive claw marks tearing down his back.

When she remembers to breathe, it's audible. Her eyes are wide and she stares without any sense of decorum but she can't bring herself to ask about them.

He tells her anyway. For not laughing, she is allowed to know, whether she wants to or not.

He points to them each in succession, speaking slowly as he goes through his memories to find the cause of them all. "This one might be from Catwoman. This one's from my first week as a patient at Arkham, This one's probably from getting thrown out a window by Batman."

Her voice is hushed when she finally finds her words. "And the big ones?"

He twists around to examine the claw marks raked across his waist. "Croc," he says tonelessly. She trails one finger over his skin and he doesn't realize at first that she's not touching any particular scar.

"Are you happy now?" he hisses. She snaps her hand back.

"You took your sweet time looking at all of mine," she retorts.

"You have a bra, you still have a little bit covered," he snarls, his blue eyes automatically skimming over her chest. She pretends not to notice.

They sit for a while in silence, her eyes on him and his eyes on the sheets. He thinks this might be the first time all week she's gone more than five minutes without heckling him. It hurts, in a good way.

She stares shamelessly, but she doesn't try to touch him again. She thinks she might want to. She thinks she might feel sorry for him. She thinks she might want to reach out and take his hand and tell him it's alright to let his walls down right now because she isn't interested in hurting him. Not right now.

"May I get dressed now, O Mistress?" he snaps, interrupting her reverie. She clears her throat and looks away, examining her fingernails intently to give him at least some last-minute semblance of dignity. Once she hears the _clackity-clack_ of his belt being buckled she turns back and reaches for her shirt, only to find it in his hand. He holds it out to her silently.

Now, there are two things that could happen. She could get dressed and they could go back to antagonizing each other. Or he could get undressed and they could go back to trusting each other. She gets up on her knees and puts a hand on his cheek, gently, just to let him know she doesn't want him to turn away. She leans over and presses her lips to his other cheek for longer than she can keep track of her heartbeat.

She gets dressed and he wraps his arms around her waist, holding her to him as he falls back on the bed. She fits against him easily. He doesn't say anything— he doesn't need to. She understands that they can only trust each other so much right now.

Scars take time to heal over.


End file.
